[Critique Group 1] Marcia's late July submission

[Marcia Wick]

The ending is abrupt, but I'm already a day late and a dollar short, sorry!

 

Old Memories 

Marcia J. Wick, The Write Sisters

July 2020

Word Count:  927

 

 

 

 

Like each sip of a fine wine, I savor every second with my 95-year-old Dad.
Minute by minute, we create new memories from the precious few moments that
remain. Every word Dad utters, a simple "Oh, hi" or "Look" is invaluable
because the remaining words are so few. I cling to each lonely syllable. 

 

I don't want to forget when Dad, the consummate Patriarch, was in charge.
He'd proclaim, "Sit down over there" or "Go find your mother." when there
were still complete sentences. As an Air Force officer and chemistry
professor, Dad's vocabulary was abundant while I was growing up, but the
most recent coherent conversation I recall having with my father was about
three years ago. He was 92. Mom was still living. Dad was worried about who
would take care of "his wife" after he died. I reminded Dad that he had
worked hard all his life to provide security for Mom and his children; that
he needn't worry about a thing. My words seemed to reassure him.

 

I witnessed Dad's confusion that Father's Day; he recognized his children
but not his grandchildren; he toasted his sons and sons-in-law but later had
to be reminded that he was a father, too. 

 

My first glimpse at Dad's failing mind occurred during a family dinner when
we were talking about our annual holiday ski trip. My father had skied
downhill for nearly half a century. For 20 years, he sponsored a team of
family members to compete in our annual benefit race for visually impaired
and blind skiers. Two of Dad's four daughter, including me, were born with a
genetic eye disease which causes progressive vision loss. Mom and Dad were
among our biggest supporters, but at age 91, Dad couldn't remember ever
participating in the benefit race - even after detailed reminders. Was it
jet lag? Mom and Dad had recently returned from travel abroad.

 

"It's like I went to England and came back without a memory," Dad commented
to me privately. The realization that he couldn't remember our annual event
shocked us both. 

 

Dad started struggling to find words at about the same time. Then, Mom
passed unexpectedly ahead of him. After that, my father's vascular dementia
seemed to accelerate and his connection to the present began to blur at the
edges. A lifetime of brilliant colors mixed and muted in his mind like the
setting sun. His memories of Mom and his children are now forever locked
away.

 

I cherish my own memories of talks with Dad, although I was in high school
by the time we formed a truly personal connection. Naturally, my most vivid
childhood memories are of playing with my siblings or neighbor children,
favorite clothes, climbing trees, and sneaking lunchbox desserts after
dinner; Mom cooked and cleaned at the fringes. Dad was "there," in the
tradition of many dads at the time, I suppose. He left for work before
breakfast, arrive home in time to watch the evening news before dinner, and
then retire to his office to correct papers or "do" what Air Force officers
do when he wasn't TDY. A typical child, I was oblivious to how bills were
paid or how my new school shoes were purchased each year.

 

Perhaps my earliest memory of my father was one of my earliest memories in
my own life. I was looking out the back window of our black Rambler as New
Mexico faded into the horizon and we headed for the Colorado Rockies. I was
four. I imagine my father was driving the car, moving his wife and five
children (one more would arrive in Colorado) to his newest assignment at the
Air Force Academy near Colorado Springs. 

 

Honestly, I don't remember Dad being relevant to my life until I began
lurking about him, attempting to earn an allowance as an adolescent. My
father came to understand his parenting role late in the game. Mom paid the
price when Dad was the emotionally-absent father of six unruly children, but
he redeemed himself as we got old enough to hike, backpack, and ski.

 

Perhaps because I came of age in the 1970s at the same time my father
retired from his military career, Dad favored me. He didn't "play" favorites
but, for whatever reason, he confided in me, although I was the fourth of
his six children. 

 

At age 16, Dad approached me in the privacy of my bedroom with a question.
He wanted to know my opinion of how my brothers and sisters would feel if he
and Mom divorced. Honestly, there was so much fighting in our house at the
time that I told him it might be the best thing if he moved out. I didn't
beg him to stay. Mom and Dad didn't have the perfect marriage, but it turned
out they held on for nearly 70 years despite my advice. 

 

When I was a young adult, Dad appointed me to be his #2 P.O.A., the
successor to his eldest son. This placed me in a position of confidence
above two of my older siblings, an awkward honor.

 

Dad once collapsed into my arms after our family rescued our oldest sister
and her sons from an abusive family situation. As I supported Dad, I felt
the weight he had carried in his role as the get-away driver.

 

That's only one example of how Dad has been there for his children and
grandchildren any time we've needed a helping hand. He forgets, but I
remember. If ever I forget, I pray that my daughters will remember

 

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